


Every Regret Burns the Same

by Nice_Valkyrie



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 19:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14027262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nice_Valkyrie/pseuds/Nice_Valkyrie
Summary: Sometimes Riza could almost forget that Kimblee wasn’t the man she was supposed to follow out of Ishval.





	Every Regret Burns the Same

The first thing Riza Hawkeye noticed when she returned from the bathroom was Kimblee leaning against her desk. The Lieutenant Colonel had taken off his uniform jacket and flung it over her paperwork, which he had cleared to the side. As she hesitated in the doorway, he jerked his head at her and said, “Come here. I have a question for you.”

So it was going to be one of those evenings. Riza had hoped she would be able to end the week without an interrogation from her commanding officer. But, she supposed, that had been unreasonably optimistic; he had seemed exceptionally ill at ease all through the afternoon. She went to her chair, circling wide around him. “What is it, sir?”

“Do you know anything about sewing?”

“A little bit, sir. I can fix up minor rips or tears.”

Kimblee hefted one wrist, where the cuff of his white dress shirt was loose and open. “That’s perfect. I managed to snag my shirtsleeve earlier, and the button on the cuff fell off. Would you be willing to reattach it for me?” His mouth twisted into an apologetic smile. “I’m really rather hopeless at this kind of thing.”

“I don’t think I have—”

“I keep a sewing kit in my desk.” He shifted, revealing the little box under his hand.

There was, of course, no polite way to refuse. As Riza opened the kit, Kimblee pulled his chair up to the other side of her desk and seated himself. She watched with only mild surprise as he reached forward and spread the cuff out beside his wrist.

 “I hope it won’t be too much bother to fix it like this. I wouldn’t have another shirt to wear in the meantime.”

Riza threaded the needle in silence. If he wanted to flirt, so be it. For as long as she’d known him, Kimblee had hovered and leered and asked questions just a touch too unprofessional; it wasn’t as though she lacked for practice at rebuffing him.

“Did you notice the date?” he said.

“It’s the end of the month, sir.”

“That’s not what I meant. Next week marks a year since we began working together.”

Riza said nothing.

“We should do something to celebrate,” said Kimblee, almost idly.

Riza pierced his sleeve with the needle and began her work. She wished it wasn’t so distracting to be close to him. There was the unmistakable, ever-present tension in the air, stretching between their bodies, the terrible quivering in her midsection that had never been entirely unpleasant. His stare bored into her skull. He was resting his hand palm-up, so that one of his tattoos stared at her too, like he was trying to remind her that coming within his reach was, almost without exception, fatal.

“You should grow your hair out.”

“What?” she said, jolted from her thoughts.

“I think it would suit you.”

His gaze tracked around the edge of her face; it was incredible, really, how she could feel that as physically as if he had traced it with his fingers.

“And maybe cutting your hair would suit you better, sir,” she said. It verged on insubordination to speak to him so, but once she had ventured into that kind of forwardness, there had seemed no way to return to deference without incurring his disappointment. He had certainly never scolded her for honesty.

Sure enough, Kimblee cracked a little smile. “I had it short when I was younger. I prefer it this way, even if it is more work.”

Riza pulled a loop of thread tight against the button. “Well, sir, that’s why I haven’t grown mine out. It would just get in the way.”

“Practicality above all else, hm? I suppose you’ve been nothing but pragmatic as long as I’ve known you.”

 “Longer than that, sir,” she said. “My father was what you’d call hopeless, too.”

“Oh? How sad.” But his eyes were bright and eager, and he shifted forward, just a little. “I suppose that’s where your determination comes from.”

Riza pushed the needle through his cuff again. They were getting to it now, she sensed, whatever topic Kimblee had wanted to discuss when he began this conversation. She felt annoyed that she couldn’t keep her knuckles from bumping his wrist, and that he seemed to be enjoying the contact.  “If you say so, sir.”

“You’re always focused on responsibility,” said Kimblee. “I suppose that’s to be expected from a girl who’s always had to fend for herself. But you’re missing the self-serving nature one might expect would have developed. You’ve never been greedy, have you? You wouldn’t take only to sate yourself.”

Riza swallowed. “I guess not, sir.”

Kimblee twitched his fingers, just enough that Riza looked at his hand involuntarily. Across the desk, he tapped her elbow with his other hand, and Riza flinched before she could stop herself. Kimblee’s lips quirked into a little smile.

“I wouldn’t have thought an errant touch would have such an impact on you. I wonder why it does?”

Kimblee’s voice was smooth, a calm suggestion that the impropriety was all in her head. Riza had always admired his composure, even after she had recognized that the neutrality that characterized so much of his affect was not true serenity but an enduring boredom. Her own attempts at stoicism were feeble in comparison. She had to suppress a shudder when his finger touched her again.

“I have to admit I’ve been concerned about you lately. You’ve always been level-headed, of course, but with an undeniable spirit. In recent months, it seems a bit damped down. I keep expecting you to bite back—you certainly have the ability—but you resign yourself instead.”

This time his touch lingered, tracing a small circle against her arm.

“Where’s that determination of yours? It’s like a spark’s gone out.”

There was no point in fighting him like this. If she protested, he would merely worm his way past her defenses and make her even more uncomfortable. He had always been too perceptive, too slippery for Riza to pin down. But she wished she didn’t feel so afraid of him. If Roy had been there, he would have been able to stop Kimblee toying with her like this.

Riza froze.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?”

She had managed to keep him nameless and nebulous for months, and then he had simply appeared in her head again. There was nothing she could do. The sting of betrayal and guilt came rushing back all at once.

“No, sir,” she whispered.

“Are you certain? You seem a bit upset.”

At times like this, she hated Kimblee—the terrible easy with which he read her, like she was no more complicated than a newspaper. His inquiries were familiar not in the way of a childhood blanket, but in the way of a persistent splinter. But unlike _him_ , Riza couldn’t simply ignore Kimblee. She bit her tongue to calm herself.

“It’s nothing, sir,” she said, wishing her voice wouldn’t quaver like that at the end of her sentences. “I need to concentrate on reattaching this button securely.”

For a moment she was afraid he would refuse to move his hand away, that he wouldn’t let her go—but he only said, “I see,” and did.

***

That night, Riza dreamed she was in the office again. It was late, and all the lights were off, but from far down the hall there was a splash of light spilling out from a doorway. As she approached it, a tuneless humming became louder and louder, until she was inside the men’s bathroom.

“Hullo, Lieutenant,” said Kimblee.

He was standing in front of the sink, wearing his undershirt. The white dress shirt from earlier was under the faucet, splattered with blood.

“I’m afraid I made a bit of a mess,” he said.

She didn’t have her gun with her. She was all alone and helpless. “What happened?”

“It was a stray,” he told her. “An opportunity that ran across my path. But it’s your fault, anyway.”

Riza could see his hand in impossible detail. There was gore caked around and under his nails, and she couldn’t look away.

“Why?”

Kimblee explained, but all she heard was a low mutter; the running water drowned his voice out.

“I can’t hear you,” she said.

It happened again, his words audible but unintelligible.

“Can you speak up?” she begged. “Can you speak up?”

When Riza woke with a start, the room was dark, and she still hadn’t heard what he said.

***

In the morning, she went straight to the shooting range.

The fields of grass were lush and green with the recent rain. The sound of shots ran out intermittently, little puffs of smoke as the few others training exhausted their supply of bullets. Riza had shed her jacket, and the cool air felt good on her skin. It was a bright, crisp day, almost cheerful, with only the faint bite of the impending winter.

When she had finally dragged herself out of bed, she hadn’t been able to tell if she was closer to crying or to throwing up. She had smothered both impulses until at last the churning in her stomach had resolved itself into the same old lump of dread she had been ignoring for years. Ever since Ishval…

No, she could pinpoint it better than that. Ever since _he_ had left her bedside in the hospital tent, the dread had lain dormant in her belly, just waiting to be coughed up again.

If Roy had been there with her in the dream, he would have killed Kimblee—snapped his fingers and turned him to ash on the spot.

Riza fired her rifle cleanly at the center of her target, then let herself fall into a meditative trance as she made her way through a familiar series of shooting exercises, until the horror of her dream faded as if it had never been, and all she was left with was her life.

Perhaps Roy would have done the same thing if he had been in the office with them.

Kimblee was a reckoning that had been a long time coming. He had become bolder in the last few months, his advances more obvious. It wasn’t the first time he had touched her like that; lately, she had been afraid he would try to kiss her, even though she hadn’t felt that way since their earliest interactions in Ishval.

She had been assigned to his command while still in Ishval, to her private dismay. Her decision to return to Central under his jurisdiction had been met with polite confusion at best; everyone had known the Crimson Alchemist’s reputation. Then, as now, he had made her feel uneasy and ill. But she had _liked_ working with him. That was the strangest thing. Riza privately doubted that he had very much ambition—his promotion had clearly been only for war record—but he was capable and intelligent, and he took his job seriously, which was far more important.

Transferring had never been a real option; it felt like running away. If she was being honest with herself, there was a vanity to it, too. She flattered herself that she could remain strong under the force of Kimblee’s interest, when his personality could so easily crush her own.

Honesty, however, didn’t help her understand how to extricate herself from the mess they were in.  

Shooting was better. Simpler. Riza wished she could put a bullet through the knot of her confusion about Kimblee and solve the whole thing that way.

Eventually, she became aware of him standing behind her, though whether it was a scent or a sound or just the heavy weight of his presence she couldn’t be sure. He was silent as she reloaded and fired again without looking his way, and she wondered if he had followed her from her apartment—or, perhaps, if he simply knew her well enough to have predicted she would come here.

Finally, he said, “Why, if it isn’t the Lieutenant.”

She ignored him and took her shot. It hit dead center. She let a little satisfaction well up inside her, and then lowered her rifle and turned to him.

“That was very well done,” said Kimblee. He had both hands in his pockets and his coat open, revealing a crisp lavender dress shirt; the breeze stirred a few tendrils of his hair, which was damp and not smoothed back as severely as usual. Riza smelled something soapy and citrusy. She couldn’t help but observe that his eyes were the same clear, cold blue as the sky. “You haven’t lost your edge.”

“I would be a foolish soldier if I let my skills degrade, sir.”

“Hmm,” he said, surveying her station and her well-punctured target. “I’ll admit it’s been a while since I’ve fired a weapon.”

Riza flipped the rifle around and offered it to him.

Kimblee considered her. “You find it easy to be brave when there’s a gun in your hand, don’t you?” he said, his voice suddenly low.

There was that keen analysis, piercing through her defenses. Riza swallowed and let the aggression pass through her.

“Yes, sir.” Her voice didn’t even waver. In fact, she felt stable all the way down to her feet, planted firm on the ground, braced against the air.

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m surprised that doesn’t upset you. Don’t you want to be brave all on your own?”

 _I am_ , she almost said; and then she remembered her shameful moment of weakness the day before, and said nothing.

Kimblee shed his coat and folded it neatly out of the way on the table. Then he took the rifle from her hands and hefted it. The barrel glinted long and well-oiled, and Kimblee looked just as lean and dangerous. But the bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, their accompanying purple shadows deeper, and he seemed almost uncomfortable holding the weapon. The fabric of his shirt stretched over his back as he adjusted his stance several times, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

“You’re too low,” said Riza.

“I’m out of practice,” Kimblee said, grimacing as he set the rifle down. “I’ve never particularly liked guns, anyway. They’re too impersonal for my tastes.”

His nails were short and clean, and as he flexed his fingers Riza felt an odd flutter in her belly. “Putting a bullet in someone is very personal. I believe it was you who taught me that, sir.”

Kimblee grinned crookedly. “I did, didn’t I? Well. You may have been smart enough to figure that out, Lieutenant, but for many people, the distance between the self and the target—the illusion of separation—seems to be the main appeal of killing as a sniper, as opposed to…other means.”

“I think shooting is an elegant way to kill.” She surprised herself by meaning it. “A bullet is efficient.”

“I’ll give you the efficiency, but I believe there’s elegance in what I do, too. Getting to know someone on an elemental level…it’s rather intimate, don’t you think?” He looked at his own hands fondly.

“Bullets are less messy,” said Riza.

Now his smile stretched wider. “That’s true as well.”

Riza watched as Kimblee pulled his ponytail over his shoulder and stroked the end of it. That was something he had only recently started doing in front of her. As she went to pick up the rifle again, his gaze slid away from her. Then, as if he had already forgotten her standing there, he moved the hair to his mouth and began to chew it.

“I used to think of shooting strictly as an obligation,” she said suddenly. “But maybe it’s something I do for myself. I’m not sure.”

Kimblee let the hair fall from his mouth and considered her for a long moment, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “There is a restaurant near my apartment that I’m quite fond of,” he said slowly. “They have excellent lamb.”

Riza waited with the feeling of balancing at the edge of a cliff.

“Why don’t you have dinner with me there tonight?”

The office was his territory, the shooting range hers, but a restaurant was neutral ground. Kimblee’s voice had betrayed no vulnerability; this wasn’t a date, but a challenge. There were still a dozen reasons she should say no. Anti-fraternization laws, for one. Sanity, for another. The butt of the rifle was smooth and cool under Riza’s fingertips. “All right,” she said, and a chilly gust of wind ruffled the hairs on the back of her neck.              

***

The red wine was good, decadent and dry on her tongue. Damn it.

Kimblee watched her closely as she drank, so Riza smiled thinly as she set the glass down and said, “A fine choice.”

“Thank you,” said Kimblee. He had donned a white suit that Riza privately thought made his skin look unhealthy, especially in the dim restaurant light. He looked her over—quickly, carelessly, not the slow ogle she had half-expected—and said, “That’s a lovely color on you.”

Her blouse was red, too, and clung to her body. It was flattering, in its own strange way, that he had complimented the former and not the latter. If he had pushed her in that direction so boldly….She thought of the gun in her purse. “That’s kind of you, sir.”

Kimblee waved his hand. “Let’s dispense with the formality of rank. This can be a meeting of equals.”

Maybe he wanted her to call him by his first name. Riza tasted it in her mind. She said, “That seems like it would violate regulations.”

“We’re already here, no?” he said, resting his chin in his hand. He nodded at her. “And you dressed up, too.”

Every time she thought she had secured herself, he made it his goal to blow her delusions apart. To expose her weaknesses and inconsistencies.

But he always managed to surprise her. He was nothing but polite for the rest of the dinner. It was pleasant to be with him when he was like this; he was good to talk to, well-read and curious, and he showed that off in the way Riza had always felt vaguely uneasy for appreciating. They chatted amicably over the red wine and the salad and the tender lamb—which was, in fact, delicious.

Kimblee ordered them brandy after the meal. The wine already had Riza’s skin humming insistently, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be concerned. With Kimblee, of course, the nerves had never really gone away, so the wary buzzing she felt was nothing out of the ordinary. Their plates were cleared away, leaving only the small separation of the white tablecloth.

The brandy was good, too, sparkling in her veins.

After they had each sampled it, Kimblee steepled his fingers and said, “I’m concerned I may have distressed you yesterday. I feel I should apologize.”

“No,” she said, afraid that if she didn’t speak quickly she wouldn’t have another chance. “I want to talk about Roy.”

After all that, his name had come out as easily as blood from a head wound.

“Mustang?” said Kimblee, like she could have meant anyone else. He seemed pleased, though.

“What did you think of him?”

Kimblee took a long sip of brandy before answering. “Mustang was capable, but he refused to take responsibility for his work. You were resistant to that idea at first, too, you’ll recall. You came around to good sense eventually. He…never did, even though he had much to be proud of.”

“What did you think of his—his work?”

“I don’t like to compare myself to others. I certainly admired his abilities.” One side of Kimblee’s mouth slanted down. “He wouldn’t say the same for me, I’m sure—he had a very sensitive stomach...

“But his abilities, my goodness. Fire has an inherent beauty, don’t you think?” The candlelight flickered oddly in his eyes. “Such destructive, _painful_ potential, and he didn’t even have to try to direct it.”

Riza reached for her glass. The back of her neck had started itching as Kimblee spoke. No, not her neck—the itching started farther down than that, crawling up her back to tickle like fingers around her throat. “Were you jealous of him?” she blurted out.

There was a brief flash of annoyance in his face; perhaps she was the only person who would have noticed it. “You’re asking an awful lot of questions. Don’t you think you ought to answer some yourself?”

She hadn’t meant to ask the question, but now she wanted him to acknowledge it. “Were you jealous of Roy?”

Kimblee gave her a long, consummately neutral look, stroking his thumb on the side of his glass, up and down, smooth and slow.

Riza supposed she had already known the answer to that one. When she looked at his fingers, she imagined them snarling in her hair as he forced her to kiss him. She crossed her legs under the table and took another sip of brandy. The rest of the fantasy played through to its end against her will: his other hand swinging up to cradle the back of her head, and then, violently, oblivion.

“My turn, then,” he finally said, and Riza heard the anticipation in the breath he drew. “Why did Mustang kill those men?”

Riza felt small and cold all over.

There were the official facts, which everybody had: Roy Mustang, who people had already been calling the Hero of Ishval, had been in an officers’ meeting when he had snapped, literally and figuratively, and immolated half a dozen of his own men.

And there was the truth, which Riza had: Roy had been her friend when they were young, and she had trusted him enough to give him her father’s research, encoded on her skin. Roy had used that flame alchemy to kill thousands. To betray her. And she had begged him to burn the guilt from her back; and when he had kept that promise, he had walked straight from the hospital tent to an officers’ meeting…

It was strange, how the weight of that handful of deaths and a prison sentence could feel so much sharper and more painful than all the other lives she had ended by flames or bullets, by proxy or by her own hand. But Riza knew she deserved it. Asking Roy to deface her back was the most selfish thing she had ever done.

Kimblee was still watching her.

“Because he was desperate,” she said. Her breath was raw in her throat. “He didn’t know what else to do.”

“That doesn’t make much sense,” he said. “Desperate for what?”

Riza clenched her teeth and shrugged.

“I have my own theory. Would you like to hear it?”

“I suspect that won’t make a difference.”

“I’ll let that rudeness slide,” he said, his tone a little frosty. “Listen now. I didn’t know Mustang very well—everything I’ll tell you comes only from careful observation—but I’m inclined to believe I’ve judged him correctly. He never struck me as a reckless or impulsive man. But if that’s the case, what could have led him to such action? I can think of only one thing—you.”

The cold, and the sensation of shrinking, intensified. She couldn’t let Kimblee see that. She couldn’t.

“You and Mustang were always careful in your interactions, but I was observing you rather closely. It was clear that your relationship with him extended beyond the borders of the camp or battlefield. Former lovers, I thought at first…” There was a question in Kimblee’s voice, but Riza didn’t acknowledge it. He went on, “In any case, the depth of your relationship intrigued me. If anyone knows what brought him so low, it's you. And I think you do hold that information. It must be a very closely-guarded secret, because it’s something you won’t tell even me...Well? Am I right?”

He didn’t know.

For all his intelligence and smugness and speculation, he didn’t actually know.

Riza almost smiled. “You’re right,” she said. “I won’t tell you.”

Kimblee’s gaze cooled.

“It makes no difference,” he said. Sometimes he was just as bad a liar as anyone else. “Let me go on to my conclusion.”

He leaned forward, one hand creeping across the tablecloth toward her. “Roy Mustang was a coward. He couldn’t face his duties—as a soldier, as a state alchemist, and as a human being, facing the drudgery of daily life. He killed those men rather than leave the sparkling thrum of war. He couldn’t muster the courage to carry on.”

It was a tempting story. The explanation he offered didn’t even feel wrong, as though perhaps Riza’s memories of Roy were distorted and she had simply been mistaken. As though there was a third story, a third truth, that only Roy had the privilege of knowing to be absolute. As though, if she just looked at him sideways, she would see what Kimblee had seen.

For a second—only a second—Riza let herself consider what Kimblee was suggesting. Everything could be different. She, like him, could remember Roy with an edge of bitter condescension, instead of the crushing weight of that particular guilt. What would it be like to give herself over to his way of thinking?

“Like you decided to,” she said slowly.

Kimblee’s lip curled. “There’s no need to sound so surprised. Don’t you think I’m capable of being moved by great emotions, beautiful and terrible alike?”

She said nothing, but his scowl deepened like he had heard her thoughts anyway. “Loss is a universal experience. You, of all people, should understand me in this. I used to have something in Ishval…” His voice had dropped, so Riza almost began to lean forward to hear him before she caught herself. “…something amazing, something _brilliant_ , and they took it from me, Riza, they took it away…”

Killing, Riza realized. Kimblee was talking about losing the freedom to murder with impunity in the same small, confused voice of a child whose toy had been unexpectedly snatched away.

“…they took it back, because they could, and now everything is gray in comparison. If I thought hard on it, I could just...scream.” He made a bizarre retching noise, then gulped and shook his head. “Is it really so ridiculous to wish for a little more excitement? For something more than the minutiae of daily life? You can’t tell me you didn’t experience every moment as brighter and sharper during the war.”

Kimblee stopped talking suddenly, frowning at his brandy. “Hmm,” he said. Then his attention was back on her. “Don’t you see? You _didn’t_ do that, Riza. You’ve faced the prospect of the rest of your life with determination and grace. For the most part, in any case—nobody’s perfect. But you and I persisted, and he retreated. I don’t understand why you make yourself upset about that. It’s illogical. It’s pointless.”

Kimblee was blunt with his opinions, but rarely open about himself. Now he was a shiny pot with a rattling lid, and noxious, oily black sludge bubbling and leaking out. He was wrong. Riza didn’t want to breathe him in. But she couldn’t entirely ignore the leap of recognition his words elicited.

Something of her thoughts must have been in her face, because Kimblee leaned forward and said, “You can see I’m correct. Does that frighten you?”

That question again. Riza swallowed.  “No.”

Kimblee drained the last of his brandy. As he set the glass down, he cocked his head at her and said, “Unfortunately, I still don’t believe you.”

His palm was visible through the glass again, his finger tapping against its rim.

There was one thing left, then. One more thing she had to face.

***

Kimblee hadn’t been lying; the restaurant was only a handful of blocks from his apartment. He walked with a leisurely stride, and Riza was forced to shorten her own. It felt like he wanted to take his time. Riza’s heartbeat increased in tempo until it felt like it was going to thud right out of her chest. Kimblee paused in front of his door.

“Here we are.”

The shadow cast by the porch overhang shrouded his eyes.

“I suppose we should say good night, then,” he said.

“Yes,” said Riza. “Good night, sir.”

Before she could back away, Kimblee reached out and cupped her jaw. His touch was soft but his fingertips felt hot enough to burn. His eyes were startlingly blue, almost too intense to look at, and his lips parted slightly.

Riza recalled with searing clarity the first time she had been called to his tent to receive orders. Even then she had felt uneasy standing in his space while he talked to her and moved around, apparently looking for something. His pants had been slung low on his hips, his shirt riding up a little, and Riza’s eyes had been drawn to the visible band of his middle as if hypnotized. The muscles had rippled as he twisted and bent, and his body had reminded her of a cat’s, thin but strong—and then Riza had realized that he was watching her watch him with a pleased and predatory gleam in his eye.

Maybe, she thought, there were some things the war hadn’t changed after all.

But after one endless second, Kimblee only pulled his hand away, leaving the scorching trails of his fingerprints on her skin. “Good night, Lieutenant.”

He smiled to himself, then turned to unlock the door.

Riza pulled her hand out of her purse and crushed herself against him, pressing the pistol up into his back.

Kimblee flinched, just slightly, and then relaxed again. “Really, Lieutenant,” he drawled, like there wasn’t a gun digging into his ribs. How was he so calm? “There’s no need for bloodshed.”

“I don’t want blood,” said Riza. Kimblee was very warm. This close, she could smell his cologne, something spicy and woody; she could feel his chest rising and falling evenly with his breath.

“Is that so?” he said quietly, looking over his shoulder at her. “Then what _do_ you want?”

Every second they stood at the door was increasing the chance someone would walk by and see them. “Let me in.”

Kimblee hummed a few notes to himself as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Riza nudged him away. “Go in a little more. Stand over there.”

He didn’t seem worried at all as he took a few steps forward and turned to face her, his hands in his pockets. He might even have been amused. The door shut loudly behind her and then they were there again in the dark.

Riza kept her hand steady and the gun trained on him. “If we’re going to do this,” she said, “I have some demands.”

Kimblee couldn’t quite manage to hide his slow, delighted smile. “Do _what_ , exactly?”

“Don’t act stupid. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Kimblee didn’t like that, but he smoothed his features again and said, “What are these demands?”

“You won’t kill me,” she said, and her damn voice broke again, but she had to say it, she _had_ to—she had to at least try to save her own life.

Kimblee laughed lightly. “I have no intention of doing so.”

“Regardless of intention. No accidents either.”

“Your life is safe.” His teeth looked sharp in his smile. He didn’t actually believe she would shoot him. That was fine. If he was willing to play along, she didn’t care what he thought of her.

Riza took a slow, careful breath. “My shirt stays on.”

Kimblee’s expression didn’t change, but she could almost hear his thoughts whirling, tripping over each other as he tried to figure out why she would insist on that. Evidently, he couldn’t piece it together, because his voice had a tinge of irritation when he said, “Fine. Anything else?”

“You have protection?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll use it.”

“Naturally.”

“That’s all, then,” said Riza.

She forced herself to lower her arm.

Kimblee was fast. He pinned her against the wall, one hand on her wrist and the other on her shoulder, and then he really was kissing her, deep and slow and hot with the taste of brandy. Riza was tingling from the adrenaline, or maybe just the kiss, which had all the raw intention of Kimblee’s obsession behind it, and which would have made her melt down the wall if he hadn’t been holding her up. Her free hand snatched a handful of his shirt, his leg sliding between hers as she pulled him closer. She could feel him through his pants, against her hip—he was already half-hard, and she wondered if he, like her, had been hiding his arousal since halfway through dinner. Her blood sang with something thrilling, and her nerves were sparking all over her skin, almost painful in the sudden intensity of sensation where there had been none for so long.

“Give me this,” he murmured, and he pried the gun from her fingers. He hunched over awkwardly to set it on the floor, kicking it out of reach with a little disdainful sneer. Then he had both her wrists behind her back and held together with one of his hands. The other caressed her cheek before trailing down to grasp her breast, kneading clumsily, finding her nipple through the fabric and teasing it.

There was something vile about having his hands on her body, something that made her feel feverish and sick even as she ached for it. She felt a deep, primal horror, like an animal who knew its death was imminent. Kimblee put his mouth to her neck, licking and kissing greedily, and that was better and worse. His tongue was hot and slimy, and her breast was growing heavy and tender under his touch, and she couldn’t help the sound that welled up in her throat. He dropped his hand down and ran it along her thigh, hiking her skirt up, baring her skin.

“Not here,” she managed. Like hell she would let Kimblee fuck her on his doorstep and put her outside again like a dog.

His breath was hot against her cheek, his hand confident as it slipped under her skirt. “I don’t think you get any more demands.”

Riza hadn’t really been stupid enough to think she could trust him. She didn’t trust _him_ , just his twisted sense of honor. That was what she was counting on—not Kimblee’s decency, but his adherence to his own principles. But miscalculations were possible…

Riza closed her eyes as Kimblee parted her with a finger and found her wet. “Oh, my,” he said, exhaling slowly, “this is lovely.” He pressed it inside her easily. Riza whimpered.

“You’re trying to hide it, aren’t you?” he said. “Still lying to me.”

The second finger went in more roughly. His mouth was at her ear, and she heard it open, like he was about to say something more, but there were no words—just his harsh, ragged breathing while he worked his fingers in and out of her. He had killed countless people with the alchemy tattooed on that hand, and now it was touching her, inside her, slick with her arousal for him. Riza’s knees were shaking. Kimblee began a rubbing motion with his palm in tandem with the movement of his fingers and Riza felt like kindling, like something molten was heating up and spreading from between her thighs to the rest of her body.

“You’re not fighting this,” he observed. “You can, if you want—that could be interesting…”

She could pretend he was Roy.

Once the idea had occurred to her, following it through to its conclusion was irresistible. They looked enough alike, dark hair and pale skin, that if she just didn’t concentrate it could be Roy’s firm grip on her wrists, Roy’s fingers twisting in her, and, probably soon, Roy’s cock fucking her. She had certainly done it with other men before. Now, like then, she could close her eyes and make believe it was Roy who had her throbbing in her skin.

But, in the end, that wouldn’t have been fair to either of them. “No,” she said.

Kimblee chuckled and shifted closer, pressing harder against her with a throaty noise. “That’s right,” he murmured. “Honesty is better.” He pushed his nose into her hair, inhaling deeply, and slipped his fingers out of her. “Come on.”

Riza let him steer her forward like a prisoner going to her execution, listening to the wet sounds of him licking his fingers clean.

The bedroom was darker and colder than the rest of the apartment. Kimblee pushed her down on the bed, tugging on the lamp on the nightstand, and clambered over her. Riza sat up and started unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders carefully, ignoring the impatience on his face. He was warm under her fingers. His small nipples were stiff in the chilly air and almost as pink as hers, his belly nearly flat but softer than she had expected—she remembered the lean, hard stomach muscles he had shown off in the desert, and wondered if he could assign all the blame to their dinner.  On the right side of his chest, under his collarbone, was a small, fresh-looking bruise, and Riza couldn’t suppress her startled laugh when she came to it.

The glare he shot her was so full of contempt, so scathing, that Riza felt the hairs on her arms stand up.

Kimblee pushed her down again, more forcefully this time. He was silent and focused now, and Riza found herself struggling to breathe. He stripped her below the waist, and then, apparently indifferent to the prospect of being fully naked even when she was not, dispensed with the last of his own clothing, and his cock stood out thick and hard from the dense curls of dark hair between his legs. Riza shivered when she felt him brush across her thigh, reaching over her to yank the nightstand drawer open. Kimblee rolled the condom on with well-practiced ease, and he was too close, spreading Riza’s legs, pushing her knees toward her chest, and she was suddenly seized by dread: _No, no, no, don’t touch me_ —and then Kimblee was inside her with a low groan.

He had gotten incredibly hard, and he took his first thrusts urgently, not pausing to let her adjust. Riza made a choked noise and clutched the sheets, panting and overwhelmed. Soon, though, Kimblee sank into a smooth, unhurried rhythm. He didn’t seem to care what she thought of the proceedings; his attention was at their hips, watching himself move in and out of her, his face alight with a bliss that could have been attractive if his teeth hadn’t been bared.

The temptation to lie back and let him take what he wanted was strong. Riza steeled herself, wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, and brought him forward. Their noses almost touched; and again she thought of kissing him, tasting him, closing her eyes and letting him fuck her tenderly like he was anybody. She threaded her fingers tightly into his hair and felt his shiver as if it were her own.

“Come on,” she said. “Can’t give it any harder than that?”

“Enough,” said Kimblee. “You’re already pushing your luck. _You_ threatened me, you know. I ought to kill you for that stunt.”

The swoop of fear in her stomach was so strong that it was almost nausea. Still, though, there was the answering clench between her legs. “You said you wouldn’t,” she reminded him.

He leaned down and mouthed her neck, his voice icy. “I never made any promises about _hurting_ you.”

He scraped his teeth against her skin as he pulled away, and Riza throttled the urge to kick herself free and kept her eyes open. “Tell me how.”

“Tell you—” Kimblee barked a laugh and nipped at her throat again. “I should make you bleed,” he growled. “I’d like to see that. A bite, or a scratch or a cut, it doesn’t matter.”

Riza hitched her hips up so he could sink in deeper, said, “Keep going,” and raked her nails down his back.

 He made an angry sound, the hunger in his eyes flaring. This time his bite was much harder, a sharp red pain that he took his time nursing. Riza gritted her teeth as he fucked her through it, a little faster now. She had wanted this, she reminded herself. The tears rising in her eyes were nothing but a physical response, but they stung all the same.

Kimblee’s voice was tight and strained when he finally pulled away. “Keep fighting. See if I’ll stop. You’d look beautiful covered in bruises.”

Riza thought of her gun, somewhere on the floor far away. Her hand shook as she drew one of his up to rest around her throat.

Kimblee swallowed hard. “You’re playing a very dangerous game,” he said hoarsely.

Riza kept a firm grip on his wrist. “Good. Control yourself.”

A small whine escaped him, his expression pained. “I should kill you. I should. I should,” he gasped, beginning to thrust harder. His fingers twitched against her neck. “I want to pluck out each of your eyelashes. I want to—pierce you everywhere—slice your stomach open—peel the skin from it—"

Riza’s insides were swinging crazily between terror and confidence, until she couldn’t tell the difference anymore, until they blended into a horrible kind of arousal. Kimblee shifted his weight, opening a little space between them, and Riza slipped her other hand down. Her body had been anticipating this all evening, and she could already feel the familiar tension building as he hissed:

“I should—I should blow off those—talented fingers—one by one—and then fuck you again—hear you _scream_ —”

Riza’s heart thudded in her chest, frantic and powerful and alive. She couldn’t look away from Kimblee, couldn’t think of anything but him, and his cock, sliding and filling and forcing her on. His eyes burned with something wild and terrible that she felt all through her body, a fearsome, unbearable heat that blazed over her skin and made her tremble beneath him. He was ugly like this. He was horrifying, and she wanted to come. He pressed his palm against her cheek and rasped, “Are you frightened?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and he laughed breathlessly and kissed her like he wanted to swallow her whole, forcing his tongue into her mouth. Riza closed her eyes. Her awareness was collapsing fast, a roaring in her ears—the inevitability filling her with fire, the hungry sounds breaking from Kimblee’s throat, the relentless pressure of his cock—Riza moaned into his mouth—Kimblee’s hand tightened around her neck and he snarled, “ _Look at me—"_

Riza opened her eyes and didn’t look away as she came, clenching her teeth and shaking with the force of it.

He didn’t fight it when she wrenched his hand from her throat. “Stubborn little thing,” he panted, and fucked her harder. His face was contorted with his effort, the lamplight emphasizing the bags under his eyes and throwing the sharp shadow of his nose across his cheek. Riza felt each thrust of Kimblee’s hips wringing a deep ache from within her, and distantly there was his flesh slapping against hers and his breath coming in gasps as well. His hairline shone with sweat as he tipped his head back, his eyes open and shimmering with light, fixed on something beyond her vision.

She turned her head. His hand was there, fingers curled like he was grasping for something, the ink stark against his pale skin. His touch, certain death, as always. Riza wanted to push it away. She forced the hand to her mouth, Kimblee’s gaze snapped back to her, and she met it fiercely as she tongued the transmutation circle on his palm.

“Oh,” said Kimblee, his expression darkening to something desperate and almost angry, “you—yes—" and he thrust in hard, sank his teeth into her shoulder, and came with a helpless moan.

Riza held him close through it, feeling him shudder, feeling him twitch inside her; and the sudden surge of relief was so intense that it was as though all the strength had gone out of her body.

So that was what it was like.

***

Eventually, his breathing slowed beneath her hands. Riza let go of him, her legs unfolding reluctantly, and Kimblee slid out of her with a hiss. He got up to dispose of the condom with a long sigh. The scratches on his back went down almost to his ribs, red and angry, with the half-moons of her nails indenting his shoulders. Riza was surprised by her own obscene pleasure at that. She lay spent and more than a little stunned. By the time Kimblee returned, still nude, the tingling in her skin had grown weaker with the subsiding adrenaline, and Riza felt almost sober, if a bit limp.

He had fixed his hair, tying it back looser and lower, and he lay back down next to her with his arms folded behind his head and a bit of smugness playing on his face. His face was still flushed, the dark hair under his arms matted with sweat, and when he looked at her his eyes were half-lidded like he was about to fall asleep. But he gave her smile that was nice and warm and almost sweet, and he said, “I greatly admire your determination, Riza Hawkeye.”

It wasn’t even the least romantic thing she’d ever heard after sex, in no small part because she knew he genuinely meant it.

Riza sat up, acutely aware of the way her shirt was clinging to her sticky skin. Her hair was probably a mess, too. She crawled to Kimblee and straddled him, north of his softened cock.

“So soon again?” He stroked her hip lazily. Riza took his hand and lowered it back to the bed. She wasn’t pinning him down, not really. He could throw her off easily if he wanted.

“If you loved what you had in Ishval so much, how could you give it up?”

The sleepiness in his eyes dissipated. “That’s easy,” he said. “The war ended.”

“But you’re suffering for it now.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I chose to abide by my duty. It was a simple decision.”

Riza traced the bruise on his chest where the rifle had kicked him. “And you’ve never wished you could take it back?”

His fingers curled around her wrist, and that was all the warning she got before he yanked her down against his chest. He hooked one arm around her, his fingers tapping over her clothed back.

“I’m comfortable with the concessions I’ve made,” he said, tracing the curves of her body. “Would you rather I wasn’t? Would you rather I take what I really want?”

His thumbs slipped under her shirt. Riza began to shiver, violently and uncontrollably.

His chuckle rumbled against her. “I think I’ve figured out what you’re hiding,” he said.

“Have you,” said Riza.

“Shall I tell you that theory, too?”

Kimblee gripped the edge of her shirt—

—and tugged it back down more securely.

“On second thought…it’s more fun if you tell me of your own volition, no? If you come to me yourself.”

His hands ran over her again, gentler this time, but like a butcher would, feeling out the exposed spots where he could cut. The soft places that would be good to hurt.

“I think you’re going to be disappointed,” she said.

She could feel his heartbeat here, strong and certain. He was always so sure of himself. Riza drew her attention away from him, back into her own body, her own heart. The sound wasn’t so different, inside her own head. It was beating out of time with his, like half a pair of marching feet, but just as steadily on and on.

**Author's Note:**

> Here are some other things you may enjoy:  
> [ Heretic Hero 'Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/10408) by Suzume for a similar premise  
> The FMA works of [That_Hoopy_Frood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Hoopy_Frood/pseuds/That%20Hoopy%20Frood), who also enjoys exploring the (platonic) dynamic between these two characters  
> [bellyache](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13571706) by bergamots for another exploration of their dynamic (elements of implied non-con)  
> The [Evolution of Riza Hawkeye](https://archiveofourown.org/series/16974) series by likeadeuce for a Riza I could only hope to write 
> 
> Any and all feedback is appreciated. Thank you for reading!


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